


certain truths

by telanaris



Series: Arcana One-Shots [10]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief, Major character death - Freeform, light spoilers for book xi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 00:57:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telanaris/pseuds/telanaris
Summary: By the time Portia and Aredhel reach the palace grounds, it is already too late.A considerable crowd has gathered. The public execution, after all, marks the opening of the Masquerade. Strangers’ faces hided behind a paper mâché masks: foxes and owls, goats and wolves, long-beaked ravens. Each mask stares ahead towards the entrance to the palace, where a gallows has been erected over the steps. The Countess and her courtiers stand at the sides of the platform; in the center stands Julian, the noose already slipped around his neck.





	certain truths

**Author's Note:**

> [inspired by the horror that is still rattling my soul from this freakin’ line from book xi:  
> “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare the dissection chamber. There won’t be much time after the hanging.”]
> 
> Please mind the tags.

By the time Portia and Aredhel reach the palace grounds, it is already too late. 

A considerable crowd has gathered. The public execution, after all, marks the opening of the Masquerade. Strangers’ faces hided behind a paper mâché masks: foxes and owls, goats and wolves, long-beaked ravens. Each mask stares ahead towards the entrance to the palace, where a gallows has been erected over the steps. The Countess and her courtiers stand at the sides of the platform; in the center stands Julian, the noose already slipped around his neck.

Despite the size of the crowd, the courtyard is nearly silent. The sea of people, holding one collective breath. And in that hush Aredhel can hear, distantly, the warbling voice of Praetor Vlastomil, presiding over the execution, though she cannot make out his words from where they stand at the back of the crowd.

It is so quiet, perhaps her voice will carry, too—she needs to let him know that she is here, that he is not alone. 

“Julian!”

The sound is shrill, and she almost cannot recognize the sound of her own voice (it is so pitched with panic) but it cuts clean across the courtyard and silences the Praetor.

Even at this distance she can see Julian raise his head in the noose, scanning the crowd, his posture going rigid. Praestor Vlastomil shouts something (her ears pick pick out the words "nasty woman” quite clearly) but then resumes his recitation, the pace of his oration quickened. 

_No. No, no, no—_

Her body is still crying out in exhaustion—muscles aching from the sprint to the palace, hair slick with sweat and sticking to her forehead—but she is no longer listening to it. The sight of the gallows (both near and so _far_ ) is enough to inspire within her a new, ferocious energy. 

Aredhel grabs Portia's hand in hers, gives her a hardened look that brooks no compromise: it is sheer will with which she is keeping herself in check, keeping from collapsing, foreign forward. She has swallowed her fear and turned it into flame, propelling her forward. But, “come on,” is all she says, before tugging Portia into the dense crowd ahead of them.

She is not gentle. She has never liked crowds; she has become adept at carving her way through them quickly as a matter of necessity, and now, all her caution and decorum has been thrown out the window. She shoves, she kicks, she steps on toes, she is exactly however rude and " _nasty_ " she has to be in order to get herself and Portia closer to the gallows. 

_And when I get there, I'll think of something, anything—do something, do_ **_anything_ ** _—_

But when the drumroll starts, they have not even come close. Aredhel can barely see the top of the gallows over the heads in front of her. 

Portia is calling her name behind her. “Aredhel, please," she begs, and Aredhel does not have to look at her to know their are tears spilling down her face; they are audible in her voice. "Please, just stop, we’re too late, I don't want to see—”

Portia's hand slips loose, but Aredhel doesn't stop. She hardly even hears Portia calling her name. She is numb, utterly vacant but for this one purpose, propelling her closer. _It's not too late it's not too late it’snot_ —

She shoves her way through the crowd, close enough now clearly make out the faces of the figures on the gallows. She wants to see Julian—wants Julian to see _her_ , here with him, to whatever end—but they have booked him. She cannot see his face, does not know if he is frightened, cannot reassure him—!

…and she is close enough, then, to see the gallows swallow him whole when the platform drops beneath him… and how, immediately after his body falls, the rope does not so much as twitch. It hangs straight and still.

And for a moment, Aredhel stands as still as the hangman’s rope. But her heartbeat is a thunder in her ears, and she refuses to believe, _can not…_ her refusal to believe what has happened, what she is seeing, it dizzies her. She nearly falls before her hand finds a stranger’s shoulder on which to steady herself. They turn, yell something at her, but their words are muffled by their mask, and she is too faint to make them out. She staggers away from the stranger, fighting, feebly, forward in the crowd. 

 _No_ , she thinks. _No._

But then her eyes turn upwards, to movement on the gallows. It is Quaestor Valdemar, heading for the stairs to descend the platform, to below, where—

_The Quaestor’s words at the Coliseum, in the dungeon, leaving no room for ambiguity, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare the dissection chamber. There won’t be much time after the hanging.”_

_NO_. Her refusal turns her cold, empty, ruthless; her elbow catches someone right in the teeth as she forces her way through the sea of bodies. 

And, then, it comes to her. The scent of another ocean. She gasps, flinches, her hands flying to her forehead, pressing at the sharp pain behind her eyes. A memory occurs to her... or, not a memory, but an image. She sees a rocky, battered coast, and pillars of stone, where the wind whips the trees so fiercely they stretch sideways, grown windswept. She does not remember this place… but she knows, without having to be told, that it is her home. 

Her body moves, intuitively, all rage and refusal, rebellion, muscle-memory: the ink lines of the oak leaves on her wrists glow a bright, pale blue. With a thrust of her arms a vicious wind that cleaves the crowd cleanly in two, pushes bodies aside and opens her path to the gallows. 

Aredhel _runs_ , propelled, the strong wind at still her back, more light of foot that she has ever been... and reaches the underside of the platform seconds before Valdemar, with just enough time to sever the rope with her knife and take Julian's limp body into her arms. 

His weight drags her downwards into a crouch, but she clutches him close to her chest, his hooded head pressed to her shoulder, her fingers fisted tight in the cloth of his shirt. When her grip on him is tight and sure, she lifts her gaze to glare at Valdemar, a snarl on her lips. 

The Quaestor has made it quite clear what they intend to do. She thinks of the dissection tables, the rusted instruments, the beetles skittering out of the pit and the bones they'd picked clean. When she speaks, her voice trembles, unevenly pitched between grief and rage:

"You will not lay a finger on him."

The Quaestor steeples their fingers, tilts their head to the side as they regard her. "It would be wiser, witch, to step aside."

"You have killed him," she hisses, her teeth bared. "Killed him for a crime he did not commit. I will not stand to see what is left of him mutilated."

The Quaestor straightens, their eyes narrow cruelty; though they are wearing their mask, behind it, Aredhel is sure they are grinning. "You are _so_ like him, you know. Too engrossed in your feelings to see the plain truth in front of you." Then, Quaestor's expression hardens. “Consider this your last warning, witch: if you do not surrender the remains of Doctor No.069, I will take them by whatever means necessary. I assure you, the scientific value of the corpse far outweighs whatever right you think you have to it. It is no more than meat.”

 _It is no more than meat_. Those words enrage her so that it takes her a moment to realize that Quaestor Valdemar is advancing; when she does, she thrusts her arm outward before she can second-guess herself. She volleys a blast of ugly magic at the ground just in front of Valdemar's feet: it bubbles and spits, blackens the ground and thickens like tar. The acrid odor of the dark magic cloys in the shallow space below the platform. 

The Quaestor's eyes widen in a mix of surprise and anger. Aredhel allows herself one single moment to feel the full might of her fear seize her before she hardens herself. 

This time, her voice does not tremble. 

"It would be wiser, Quaestor, to keep your fucking distance."

A flash of purple—Nadia, descending the stairs from the gallows below the Quaestor. Her eyes widen, and her shifts back and forth between the Quaestor and the apprentice—her _investigator_ —clutching to her chest the very ‘murderer’ she had been tasked with hunting down. 

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Nadia," Aredhel says. Her facade cracks, breaks. Nadia is fair; Nadia aspires to make this beautiful, terrible city a place of justice. Nadia, maybe, can be reasoned with: "Please, please... tell the Quaestor they cannot take Julian."

Until now, in the company of the Countess, she has always talked about him with greater distance: ‘the suspect,’ ‘the defendant,’ ‘Doctor Devorak.’ She realizes she has slipped, used his first name at last, betraying a greater intimacy then she’d previously let on. 

Then again, she _is_ on the verge of tears, clutching his body to hers—that particular cat might be out of the proverbial bag. 

And she is too exhausted, too grief-stricken, to care. 

A crowd has gathered behind Nadia, around the edges of the gallows. Courtiers Valerius, Vlastomil, Volta and Vulgora have filed down the stairs behind the Countess. Some of the spectators, drawn by the commotion, are pressing in around the other sides. 

But Aredhel is does not spare a glance for these onlookers—her eyes are locked upon Nadia's. She and the Countess have not always seen eye to eye, but she thinks she has earned Nadia's respect; enough of it, at least, that the Countess might do her this one favor. In all the things she could have asked for as payment for her services—gold, jewels, estates, fine clothing—this does not seem so unreasonable. 

' _Please_ ,' she mouths, and watches as Nadia’s brow knits with indecision. 

"What childish theatrics, really," Valdemar says, straightening, stepping around the hex to advance towards Aredhel once more. "As the Quaestor of Vesuvia, Headmaster of this city's College of Medicine, that Doctor is _MY_ property, to do with as I please, and I will _not_ —”

Valdemar is but a few steps away when Aredhel casts the shield spell. It is weak—she has never cast this particular spell herself, only seen Asra do it—and she knows it will not hold for long. But perhaps it will give her time to think, to figure out a way to escape, or convince Nadia to help her….

In the end, it is not necessary. 

"Quaestor Valdemar!"

Nadia's voice cuts through the air with the clarity of a bell. The Quaestor freezes; as they turn to face the Countess, Aredhel can see the trace of a sneer on Valdemar's features. 

"Yes, Countess?"

Her heels clack on the steps as she crosses the dark space towards him. Though Valdemar is slightly taller, and Aredhel knows from experience what an intimidating and chilling aura the Quaestor exudes, Nadia does not look in the least bit cowed. 

"Doctor Devorak has been tried, sentenced, and punished for a crime against the Countship of Vesuvia. I am Vesuvia's Countess. According to the legislation and mandates laid down in _Vesuvian Lawe and Custome_ , my claim to him supersedes yours." Her eyes fall past Valdemar, and meet Aredhel’s. "He is under my protection. And so Aredhel shall honor him in death however she likes."

Valdemar is plainly furious, but it is a cold and sharp fury, like the the subtle flash of light on the blade of a knife. "The Countess thinks a convicted murderer—the killer of her husband, no less—deserving of honor in death?" The Quaestor leans forward, grips Nadia’s shoulder tightly, whispers so that only she can hear;

"Oh, Princess. I am not sure how much longer you will remain Countess, with that attitude."

Nadia does not permit her surprise (nor her indignation, that the Quaestor would threaten her) to reach her face. She simply stands aside, watching the Quaestor sternly as they begin to skulk away. But before they have left the darkness beneath the gallows, Valdemar passes one last glance at Aredhel, who meets their gaze defiantly… and though the evil intent in Valdemar’s eyes is easy to recognize, Aredhel does not waver.

As soon as he goes, however, she crumples. The thin shield dissolves around her like snow, and she sinks fully to the ground, her arms still drawing Julian's body tightly against hers. 

She is exhausted, heartbroken, _weak_ … but the danger has passed. The Quaestor will not get his hands on Julian—that is all that matters, now. 

It is from relief, at first, more than grief, that she begins to sob. She bends, still curling her body protectively around Julian’s as she buries her face against the rough fabric of the hood on his head.

Vaguely, she perceives Nadia, not far away, dismissing the crowd, encouraging them to dissipate, to enjoy the festivities the Masquerade has to offer instead of lingering and gawking at Aredhel in her grief. She is tremendously grateful, but a bitter pain twists inside of her. _You are helping me now_ , she thinks, _but you did not stop this when you had a chance, when I begged you._

The crowd fades… but even as the majority of the spectators depart, two figures step hesitantly closer. Over the sounds of her own grief, Aredhel can barely make out the tears of another—when she raises her head, Aredhel can only barely recognize Portia and Mazelinka through her tears. Portia trembles as she cries, leaning on Mazelinka’s arm for support.

Aredhel tries to speak—to say anything— _it is my fault, I was not fast enough, I could not save him—_ but the loss she feels is too big to express, so immense it is beyond the power of language, and she can only shake her head, a wretched wail pulled from her throat before she buries her head once more against the crook of Julian’s neck.

Mazelinka comes to crouch beside her. “Come, child,” she says, and her voice is more gentle than usual. “He is safe now. You kept him safe. You did good.”

Aredhel cannot come up with anything resembling a coherent response. Through the grief (the grief which is steadily mounting into full-blown _panic_ ) she manages a few words: _not safe enough_ , and, _wrong, I’ve done wrong._

Her tears are too thick to get out the certain truth of the matter, what strikes right at her soul:

_He said he did this to protect me. If I had never loved him, he would still be alive._

Gently, Mazelinka draws Julian out of her arms, lays his body on the ground. Her fingers work at rope until it is loose enough to draw over his head; then, she pulls back his hood.  

He is still, his neck tilted at an unnatural angle. His lips are blue, he looks… so wrong. So _lifeless_. So unlike himself, without his lips twisted into a grin or a smirk, his brow smooth.

 _Take it from me_ , she thinks, ridiculously, desperately, beseeching whatever god or spirit that might hear her entreaties, who might deign to bargain. She will surrender—anything. Even, _Please, I will not love him this time, I will keep my distance, keep away._ She thinks of the easy laughter they’ve shared, the heated kisses in the back of the Community Theatre, the look on his face when they’d discovered his innocence— _I will give it all back, you can take it all from me, all that light, that love. Give me another chance and I will stop myself from loving him so that he does not have to die._

Mazelinka has pulled his head into her lap. She runs her fingers through his hair, smoothing it out of his face as she sings under her breath. She sings in a language that Aredhel cannot understand, but one she recognizes, has heard spoken in the South Quarter. The language of Nevivon. And without knowing the words, she can tell by the lilt in Mazelinka’s voice that the song she is singing is a lullaby. 

It is too much, too hard to look at him like this—she doubles over, seizing fistfuls of his shirt, and buries her face in the cream-colored gauze. 

…it still smells of him: coffee and leather and musk. She sucks the fragrance into her lungs until she is lightheaded.

“I am sorry,” she mumbles into the fabric. “I am so, so sorry.”

She hears the rustle of fabric—Portia taking a seat opposite her, on the other side of Julian’s body. A moment later Portia too begins to sing, her voice matching beautifully with Mazelinka’s. A lullaby turned to a lament. It might have calmed her, soothed her soul, quieted her sobbing—but for the fact that, in the distance, beyond their vigil, she can hear the sounds of merriment, music, feasting. 

The Masquerade. The city going on as if there has been no tragedy at all—as though innocent blood has not been spilt in the name of Justice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> so..... the devs broke me. :/


End file.
